“But are they all gone to bed?” whispered Gurdon.
“Yes, all but Mrs Elstree, who’s sitting up in my lady’s room.”
“Come down then, softly, into the passage and open the lobby door; you can let me in then, through the billiard-room.”
“That I’m sure I’m not going to!” exclaimed Jane, indignantly, “and you ought to be ashamed of yourself for asking me such a thing. It isn’t like you, John.”
“Hold your tongue, will you!” he exclaimed, gruffly. “Do you want to be heard, and have me shot by one of the keepers, or some one fire at me from one of the windows?”
“N-n-no,” gasped Jane; “but pray do go; pray, dear John, go away!”
“Ah, you’re very anxious to get rid of me now,” said Gurdon, sneeringly, for he could hear that Jane was sobbing; “I may go now, just because I made a slip, and you want to see me no more. It’s the way of the world.”
“No – no; don’t talk like that,” cried Jane, “for you know I don’t deserve it; but pray, for both our sakes, go away at once. Write to me and say what you want.”
“I shan’t do nothing of the kind!” hissed Gurdon, angrily. “You do as I tell you: come down and let me in, or it’ll be the worse for you. I want to talk to you so as I can’t talk here. I’ve got a deal to say about the future.”
“I don’t care, and I won’t!” said Jane, excitedly, for anger roused in her anger in return. At such times she did not at all feel afraid of John Gurdon, nor of his threats, but was ready to meet him with open resistance. “I’m not going to do any such thing, so there now! It’s more than my place is worth, and you know it, John. And besides, it wouldn’t be seemly and modest.”
“Oh, you’ve grown very modest all at once, you have,” sneered Gurdon, angrily. “It’s all make believe; and if you don’t do as I tell you, I’ll pay you out in a way as’ll startle you! Come down this minute,” he hissed, “and do as I tell you! I will speak to you!”
“You won’t do nothing of the kind,” said Jane, angrily; “you’ve been drinking again, or you wouldn’t have come here to ask such a thing, nor you wouldn’t have thrown them nasty, sneering, jeering words at one that no one can say a word against, so there, now. And now, good night, Mr Gurdon,” she said, frigidly; and he heard the sash begin to close.
“Oh, Jane – Jane, darling! please – please stop, only a minute,” he whined, for he knew that he had played a false card, and that it was time to withdraw it. “Don’t be hard on a poor fellow as is fallen, and who’s put out of temper by his troubles. I didn’t think that you’d turn your back upon me – I didn’t, indeed.”
John Gurdon paused, and gave vent to a snuffle, and something that was either a hiccup or a sob. Jane Barker, too, paused in her act of closing the window, for somehow John Gurdon had wound his way so tightly round her soft heart, that she was ready to strike him one moment, and to go down on her knees and beg forgiveness the next.
“It’s very hard,” sobbed Gurdon, in maudlin tones. “Even she has turned upon me now, even to closing the window, and denying me a hearing – I didn’t think it of her. A woman that I’ve worshipped almost – a woman as I’d have died for a dozen times over; but it isn’t in her nature.”
Gurdon stopped and listened attentively.
“She isn’t a bad one at heart,” he continued, in the same whining, lachrymose tones, “but she’s been set against me, and it’s all over now; and I may as well make an end of myself as try and live. I did think as she’d have come down to listen to me; but no, and it’s all over. The whole world now has shut its doors and windows in my face!”
“Oh, John – John, pray, pray don’t talk so!” sobbed Jane.
“What! not gone?” he exclaimed, in mock ecstasy.
“No, no! How could you think I should be so cruel?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” he whined. “But pray, pray come down: I want to have a few words about what’s to be done. I don’t want to take a public-house now, Jane, but to go into the grocery and baking; and there’s a chance before me, if I could only point it out.”
“Well, tell me now,” sobbed Jane.
“No; how can I?” said Gurdon – “I shall be heard. Ah! Jenny, you don’t care for me as you used, or you wouldn’t keep me out here like this!”
“Oh, what shall I do?” sobbed Jane. “I can’t do as he asks, and he knows it; and yet he’s trying to break my heart, he is!”
“Now, then, are you going to listen to me, Jenny?” whispered Gurdon, imploringly.
“Oh, I can’t – I can’t: I daren’t do it!” sobbed poor Jane.
“Oh, please, if you love me, don’t drive me to desperation!” cried Gurdon. “I – ”
“Hush!” whispered Jane, in affrighted tones, for at that moment there was a loud knocking at her bedroom door, and the voice of Mrs Elstree was heard.
“Jane – Jane! Quick! Call Sir Murray! My darling is dying!”
Beneath the Shadow
As, muttering a savage oath, John Gurdon crept through the yielding shrubs, Jane Barker softly closed the window, and then glided to the door.
“Not gone to bed?” exclaimed Mrs Elstree. “Thank Heaven! Rouse Sir Murray and my husband while I run back.”
“Have you called Dr Challen, ma’am?” said Jane, in agitated tones.
“Oh yes: he is in the bedroom,” sobbed Mrs Elstree; and she hurried back.
In a few minutes husband and father were by the bedside, watching with agitated countenances the struggle going on, for truly it seemed that the long lethargy into which Lady Gernon had been plunged was to be terminated by the triumph of the dread shade. As Mrs Elstree had sat watching her, she had suddenly started up to talk in a wild, incoherent manner; and as Sir Murray Gernon stood there in his long dressing-gown, with brow knit, a shade that was not one of sorrow crossed his brow upon hearing some of his stricken wife’s babblings.
“Philip,” she said – and as she spoke her voice softened, and there was a yearning look of gentleness in her countenance – “Philip, the cross: where is the cross? Have you hid it? – have you taken it away? Pray, pray restore it! He will be angry. They are favourite old jewels, that I wear for his sake. You loved me once; for the sake of the old times give it me back! He will ask for it. Where is the cross? Do you see: blue sapphires, each like a little forget-me-not peering up at you. Your flowers – true blue, Philip. But the cross – I must have the cross!”
She was silent for a few minutes, and then, wildly turning to her husband, she caught his hand in hers.
“Philip,” she cried, addressing him, “it is all madness – something of the past. It was not to be, and we have each our path to follow. I heard the rumours: trouble – failure – your income swept away – dearest Ada. But you must not come to want. You will give me back the cross, though; not the forget-me-nots. Keep them, though they are withered and dry – withered and dry as our old love – something of the past. Let me see,” she said – and her eyes assumed a troubled, anxious expression – “you cannot claim me now. I am another’s – his wife. How blue the lake looks! and how plainly it mirrors the mountains! Fair blue waters – blue – true blue. If I could have died then – died when you plucked the flowers from my breast – but it was not to be. I have a duty to fulfil – a burden – a cross” – she said, dreamily – “a cross? Yes – yes – yes, the cross. You will give it me back, Philip,” she whispered, with a smile; “it lies, you see, where once your forget-me-nots lay. I cannot wear them now, but the colour is the same – true blue. But you will find them for me, those bright